


crunchwrap supreme

by ruruka



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 01:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21291608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruruka/pseuds/ruruka
Relationships: L/Yagami Light
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	crunchwrap supreme

“No, I’m positive. It came out the same year I was born, you know.”

“Then that would mean you have no memory of it, so your argument holds even less water.”

“I’m just sharing a...fun fact. Besides, you can’t act like you have many clear memories of being _six_.”

“Perhaps. It was a rather tense time in my life. But I do remember for certain when Dire Straits released _ Hip to Be Square _ in 1986.”

“I’m telling you, L, it was Huey Lewis and the News. I’m not wrong about this, I’ve seen American Psycho, like, fifty times.”

“That explains where your morals originate from, then.”

“_No, _I just-” And to his blinks, the car window cradle homes his toned tip elbow, another lick up higher toward the opening drive thru glass. “Thank you,” passes as his fingers grip paper brown. “Have a nice day.”

In rhythmic tempo, the black brim visor of the window worker tips away whilst the bag is whipped a one way boomerang to the passenger seat. Light flicks the steering wheel forward as the rodent beside him digs his nose into the fast food bag.

When next L speaks, it is muffled by fake meat.

“You said you wanted to try it.”

By the next traffic stop, Light’s willing to glance for the straw offered his way, flecked in the droplets left behind within it by one sip; in ten more minutes, it’ll be gnawed flat. He cranes his neck til nearly there may be a pop of it, sipping broadly the concerningly blue battery acid labeled as a soft drink. Yes, perhaps, he’d commented about wondering its taste on the drive up to the second window, if only for eighteen years of life trapped in a house of good health and home cooked meals, no soda or snack foods outside the occasional stealth mission to the cabinet after dinner. 

“Yugh,” pinches his face, and very suddenly as goes forth the cars ahead, he’s thankful to Sachiko’s chiding that he wouldn’t look so cute with sugar rotten teeth. “Way too sweet.”

“You can have the taco if you’d like,” L attempts to mend, cup left to sweat in a holder, half a remaining burrito hung in his mouth as both long dead hands rummage in the paper bag to retrieve it. Lettuce falls upon the impeccable upholstery as he unwraps it for a glance.

“I don’t want a taco at nine in the morning...thanks.”

“But...it’s hard shell,” L says, mouth freed to speak yet still mumbles forward, “I don’t like hard shell. You ordered it that way.”

“I asked you, hard shell or soft,” Light says, tempered as his brows tip toward the road ahead. “And you said, you remember when _ Hip to Be Square _ came out, because Dire Straits performed it at your birthday party, and I said you never had birthday parties before living with Watari, you already told me that.” Blinker and wheel dance together to coast them round a corner. “Aaand then you said, get me a Baja Blast, Light, you sexy bastard.” 

Response fills the space as a vicious _ crunch _into a hard shell. Cheese falls from the mess of his bite. 

“It’s funny, you know, one tug of the wheel could own your life. If I decided to kill us right now, it’d be as simple as a flick of my wrist,” comments Light in too nonchalant a breath. They maneuver serenely twenty five in a thirty.

“You have such a way with words,” L lauds after a thick swallow. Soda follows it down, a smack of lips after again. “I love you dearly. In fact, I’m obsessed with you. I’d quite like to pull the car over right now, forget about work today, and let you hickey up my throat like we’re horny teenagers. I’m infatuated by you, Light, why I think I just may be your biggest fan. I even-”

“Hey Siri,” Light calls overtop the slurring drone. He shifts his position, shoulders taut stiff in a grasp on the wheel and eyes demanding the road no matter how deeply they wish to clasp shut to leave his exhale a companion. On the console stand, his phone screen offers life to his voice. “Play _ Hip to Be Square _by Huey Lewis and the News.”

Morning.


End file.
